


some grief shows much of love

by Carmarthen



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo e Giulietta - Ama e Cambia il Mondo, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Canon Compliant, Doom, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loyalty, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Minor Character, Post-Slash, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He licks his lips, tasting paint, and imagines he can still taste the salt of his tears, even though he had scrubbed them off the night before, as if with them he could scrub away his grief, wash it away with his paint to mix with the muck of the city, forgotten.</i>
</p><p>Giulietta and Tybalt's feline henchman have an encounter the day after Tybalt's death. Gen, although you could also read it as very subtextual post-slash if that's your thing.</p><p>(Based on the recent Italian production of the Presgurvic musical.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	some grief shows much of love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acaramelmacchiato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/gifts).



> Notes: After close-watching all the scenes with Tybalt's breakdancing feline henchman, I developed an unexpected attack of feelings when I realized what happened to his eye makeup between the duel and the denouncement of Romeo for killing Tybalt: he'd been crying. And then he has such a major role in the denouncement, and he's the first person to touch Tybalt's dead body and god help me, I am going down with this ridiculous ship.
> 
> But even aside from that, Parkour Henchman is such a weird character, so I thought it would be interesting to try to figure out his headspace and how he fits into the story. His name here is not canon, but acaramelmacchiato and I decided it was sufficiently anvilicious to fit into a story with a Mercutio and a Benvolio.
> 
> I have blithely mixed names from Shakespeare and the Italian production according to personal whim.

Giulietta pauses just inside the gates of the house, sighs, and puts back her hood. "You might as well come out," she says, and then, when Lionello reluctantly slips out from behind the neatly-trimmed hedge lining the walkway, "Oh, _you._ Tybalt's—" She waves a hand, at a loss for what to call him. "What's your name?"

He licks his lips, tasting paint, and imagines he can still taste the salt of his tears, even though he had scrubbed them off the night before, as if with them he could scrub away his grief, wash it away with the paint to mix with the muck of the city, forgotten. "Lionello, lady," he says, for that is what Tybalt always called him and he can remember bearing no other name. The words come out rusty with disuse; he is not used to the notice of the Family, save Tybalt. He is not used to anyone's notice. In his strangeness he goes unremarked: Tybalt's mad little pet, a curiosity and a jester. He prefers it that way, prefers to be thought an amusement and not a weapon, prefers to be ignored.

But now he is a weapon without a wielder, a pet without a master, and the absence aches within him; perhaps he has always been a dog at heart and never knew it. All the purpose that remains to him is the hatred he had never truly felt before Romeo Montague's blade sank into Tybalt's back, the hatred which eats at him now like a canker; that and to keep Giulietta safe.

"Lionello," she says, speaking with slow patience, although not unkindly. She is pale with grieving, and something in her pain wakes an answering pull in his chest, a pang like a splinter working its way deeper. "You need not follow me."

Ducking his head, he gropes for words. "Tybalt said," he begins, and stops. It is not quite true: Tybalt had never _said,_ not as such, it is only that Lionello knows he would have wanted it. He decides that if it is not quite true, it is not quite a lie, either. "Tybalt said that if he—if he died—" His voice cracks and drops, like a boy's, and he hates it. "—if he died, I am to look out for you."

An expression of mingled amusement and irritation flits over Giulietta's face, and she presses a hand that suddenly trembles to her eyes, giving a watery laugh. "My _dear_ cousin," she says, and then lays a hand on Lionello's shoulder. It is all he can do not to shake it off; it feels like a reproach for his failure, although he knows she does not mean it so. Quieter: "You miss him also."

Like a piece of his own soul, he thinks, but he does not want to speak of this to Lady Giulietta, or to anyone. He has never liked words. Words are only a cheap copy of truth, and with Tybalt he had scarcely needed them: a look was enough, a smile, a touch. They had understood each other. But Tybalt was dead, although Lionello could still remember the last warmth of Tybalt's cheek under his fingertips, as if he would open his eyes and laugh his half-mad laugh, a splendid joke on everyone, a Prince of Cats with yet eight lives left to spend. He was dead. "Yes," Lionello says, "lady."

Her hand is warm against his skin, but it is the wrong hand.

"Lionello," she says, firmly, "you do his memory honor, and I thank you for your care; but I am only going to Friar Laurence's cell to confess. I will be safe enough if you remain here. Please."

He hesitates—but confession is a private matter, and the Montague boy exiled from the city. Surely she will come to no harm.

At last he nods, and she smiles at him; there is something of Tybalt in her smile, or perhaps it was always something of her in his. They were cousins, after all, for all their differences, Capulets both of them. Lionello looks away, and when he raises his head again, she is gone.


End file.
